


Patient-Centered Care

by Melibe



Series: Bad Medicine [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Bath Sex, Bathing/Washing, Beelzebub Has a Vulva (Good Omens), Beelzebub has eczema, Dermatologist Gabriel, Doctor/Patient, Dubious Consent, Fluff and Smut, He/Him Pronouns For Gabriel (Good Omens), Medical Kink, Other, They/Them Pronouns for Beelzebub (Good Omens), Touch-Starved, but also they're very soft for each other, fluff because of the fluffy bath towels, more like guided bath masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-30
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:47:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27282148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melibe/pseuds/Melibe
Summary: Beelzebub fished the prescription out of the trash and smoothed it on the table.apply Heavenly cream 2x/daycall for help with applicationHe’d touched this paper, held it in his hand, pressed his pen into it. It was covered with his fingerprints. Beelzebub shuddered.Theywere covered with his fingerprints.--In which Beelzebub makes a phone call, and Dr. Ark makes a house call.
Relationships: Beelzebub/Gabriel (Good Omens)
Series: Bad Medicine [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1927267
Comments: 24
Kudos: 47





	Patient-Centered Care

**Author's Note:**

  * For [seekwill](https://archiveofourown.org/users/seekwill/gifts), [Euny_Sloane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Euny_Sloane/gifts).



> seekwill, who asked for a sequel, also beta'd it beautifully
> 
> Euny galaxy brained the bath _and_ the wet wrap therapy

Dr. Ark’s prescription slip had seen some things.

First, it had been shoved deep in the pocket of Beelzebub’s work slacks when they dressed themselves in the exam room with hands that absolutely were not shaking. It had stayed there, unseen but unforgotten, while they drove home in their black convertible Volkswagen beetle.

They’d put the top down, as they hadn’t for months, letting early spring air swirl through the red leather interior. It was chilly, but for once that didn’t bother them. Their body radiated heat every time they thought of Dr. Gabriel Ark, and it was a relief to have some of it blown away.

What had happened? What the _hell_ had happened on that exam table?

It had felt good, Beelzebub could acknowledge that. He’d taken care of them as no one else ever had, moisturizing every inch of their skin without once criticizing the condition it was in. He’d left no patch of eczema untreated, not even between their legs. _Especially_ not between their legs. Their cunt still throbbed with the echo of two orgasms, and their whole body felt loose and light.

But their heart seethed. They’d arrived at the appointment battle-ready, expecting to tear Dr. Ark to shreds as they had so many other useless medical professionals. Then he’d wrecked them instead. He’d made them weak. He’d made them beg. And they’d _liked_ it. As they pulled up to their house on the edge of town, they already wanted his touch again.

That was a recipe for disaster, wanting things from other people.

Beelzebub opened the gate in the hedge around their property and walked through the garden to their front porch. A few early blooms had opened--they’d carefully researched which species wouldn’t trigger their allergies--and the first bees were nosing around for nectar. Soon the place would be buzzing with pollinators.

Inside the front door, dim quiet enfolded them. This was their sanctuary from the harsh fluorescent lights of the office, from the idiot employees who could fuck up the simplest task. They dropped their keys, wallet, and phone onto a wrought iron table. Then they pulled out the prescription.

_apply Heavenly cream 2x/day_  
_call for help with application_

They crumpled it up and threw it in the trash.

Days passed. Beelzebub scowled at subordinates, sent scathing e-mails, cooked and cleaned and gardened and then did it all over again. But between tasks, they kept finding themselves in front of a fresh browser tab, searching online for Dr. Ark. 

Before booking the appointment, they’d done a cursory investigation, rolled their eyes at a few glowing reviews. Now they sniffed out details like a bloodhound. Who _was_ this asshole?

They found him on the alumni page of Harvard medical school; they peered at the list of prestigious hospitals on his LinkedIn profile. In his standard physician mugshot, the white coat hung so perfectly that Beelzebub decided he must have gotten it tailored. Pretentious prick.

They couldn’t forget how it had felt to cling to those broad shoulders, their fingers pressing into the starched fabric.

They pored over his reviews. Five stars from Jessica C.: “Dr. Ark is very patient and caring when he talks me through my treatments. I feel confident I’ll always get a great result.” Beelzebub hated the jealousy that bubbled up. _Did he rub you off on the exam table? Is that what you mean by a great result?_

Four stars from Bryan H.: “More expensive than I am used to but worth every penny. I feel like a new man and I have Dr. Ark to thank for it.” Wildly Beelzebub wondered, _Do you want to cry when you think about his hands? Because that feels pretty fucking new to me._

After a week of obsessive googling, they’d stressed themselves to the point of another flare-up. It was no surprise to wake up one night digging their fingers into the rough skin of their thighs, itchy enough to scream.

_Don’t scratch. I can see where you’ve been scratching._

“Fuck you," Beelzebub whispered into the dark. “I’ll scratch if I want to.”

But they didn’t. Their hand slid higher of its own accord, searching for their cunt. Heat flared from their core, and the itch in their skin deepened to an itch in their bones. They rutted helplessly against their fingers, hunting for an edge of pleasure that wouldn’t come.

They kept thinking of Dr. Ark. Kept shoving those thoughts away. They could get themselves off without fantasizing about some idiot doctor, had done it plenty of times before.

Not tonight. Beelzebub rolled and squirmed, threw off the sheets and clawed at their pillow. Finally, when dawn would have been creeping through the window if not for the blackout curtains, they fell back asleep, exhausted, frustrated tears on their cheeks. When they woke up they called in sick and paced naked through their house, skin chafing against nothing.

They stopped by the half-full trashcan in the front hall. They hadn’t emptied it in weeks. Most of the waste they generated was cooking scraps, which went in the garden. Sometimes they composted paper too, but they’d worried that the weird blue ink on Dr. Ark’s prescription might be bad for the worms.

They fished the slip of paper out and smoothed it on the entryway table.

_apply Heavenly cream 2x/day_  
_call for help with application_

He’d touched this paper, held it in his hand, pressed his pen into it. It was covered with his fingerprints. Beelzebub shuddered. _They_ were covered with his fingerprints.

They folded the prescription in half and left it standing on the table. A reminder. That was normal, right, a thing normal people did? Leave reminders by the front door?

Then they went to the kitchen, looking for something to chop. They settled on a bunch of rhubarb, the season’s first harvest, and took comfort in the fierce slice of their knife through fibrous flesh. Could do some baking, if they were taking the day off. Rhubarb crisp for dinner would be veggies and carbs. Ice cream in the freezer for protein.

A week passed, and the itching grew worse. On the day that Beelzebub nearly scratched their own nose off, they finally stopped at the pharmacy on their way home from work.

It was horribly crowded. They usually shopped at off-times to avoid the stares, the quickly averted eyes. They could _see_ people wondering if it was contagious, trying not to touch the shelves Beelzebub touched. Sometimes they thought they’d rather be an actual leper, so they _could_ spread disease. Fucking humanity deserved it.

They found the Heavenly cream, forked over its obscene price, and escaped. They popped the seal as soon as they got inside their house. No reason to make a production of it. Walking to the bathroom, they squeezed some cream onto their fingers and spread it over the bridge of their nose.

Then their eyes caught their reflection in the mirror. Their hand looked too small. Their fingers felt too cold. They forced themselves to cover the angry red blisters on their nose and cheek, but it was barely a relief. They touched their chapped lips.

And froze.

 _He’d_ touched their lips. Stroked his thumb all over them, and it had been the most sensuous experience of Beelzebub’s life. Their tongue had darted out--they hadn’t been able to restrain the impulse--and he’d only smiled.

They dropped the tube of cream on the edge of the sink and sank to the floor so they wouldn’t have to watch in the mirror as they ran their own thumb over their rough lips. Over and over and over. Fuck fuck _fuck_ it almost felt like they could come like this, from touching their own face.

But they couldn’t. They already knew that.

Blindly they reached for the phone in their pocket, dialing the number they’d memorized from days of staring at his prescription.

“Hello?”

“Dr. Ark?” Beelzebub asked, as if they didn’t recognize the deep, warm voice.

“Yes, who is this?”

Of course he didn’t know. They were just another patient. He wasn’t the one who’d internet stalked them. He wasn’t the one who’d lain awake nights, replaying that one-hour appointment in his head, biting his pillow in an agony of desire.

“Beelzebub Lord,” they identified themselves, not sure what they’d do if he didn’t remember their name. Throw their phone in the toilet, maybe.

Luckily for the hapless device, he answered at once. “Beelzebub! I’m glad you called. I’ve been wanting to follow up with you. Tell me, were you able to get the Heavenly cream?”

They swallowed, staring up at the tube on the sink. “Yeah. Had to take out a second mortgage to afford it, but health comes first, right?”

“That’s right.” His sincerity drowned their sarcasm. “Have you used it?”

They looked down at their fingers, still smeared with the stuff. They could say yes. Wouldn’t even be a lie. _Yes, and it didn’t help, because you’re as incompetent as every other doctor I’ve seen_. “I, uh. Just started.”

“I see,” he said kindly. “Can you hold for a few seconds?”

“I guess. Whatever.”

They expected terrible music, maybe Rogers and Hammerstein instrumentals, but they only heard Dr. Ark’s footsteps, then his muffled voice. “Sandy, could you pull up my calendar for the week? Yes, I know it’s full. Mm. Thank you. One more thing, patient data for Lord, please. Beelzebub, that’s the one. _Sandy._ ” His tone iced over. “That’s completely inappropriate.”

Then he spoke in their ear, all warmth again. “Is your address still 1224 Matthew Lane?”

Right. He had their address on file. That was a thing medical offices did. “Yeah, why?”

“For a house call, so I can help with the application.” They heard his footsteps again, and his voice got quieter. “That’s what you called for, isn’t it?”

Beelzebub couldn’t talk. They felt itchier than they’d ever known was possible, and if they opened their mouth it would beg him to come over right this second.

“Beelzebub, are you there?”

“Yeah,” they croaked.

His tone was intimate. “Is that why you called?”

“Y-yeah.”

“Very good.” Had he gone somewhere private? Was that why he sounded like silk and sex? “I can be there on Friday at 6pm.”

Beelzebub grasped for their sanity. For their cynicism. “Nice racket you’ve got there. A, a house call’s pretty fucking expensive, isn’t it?”

“No charge,” he murmured. “After all, you’ve got a second mortgage to pay off, now.”

Was he teasing them? Or had he taken their snide remark seriously? Fuck, they had no idea.

“Beelzebub. Friday. 6pm. Yes?”

They almost choked on it, but they got the word out. “Yes.”

* * *

On Friday Beelzebub drove home faster than was truly advisable and tore off their work clothes, only to sit in the kitchen in their dressing gown, staring at the traitorous clock that claimed it was only 5:40.

They scrolled through e-mails on their phone until 5:54, when they couldn’t stand it anymore and got up to make a cup of tea. It took exactly six minutes. They were just about to have the first sip when the doorbell rang.

 _Well fuck that_ , they thought, _if he’s going to be so obnoxiously punctual, he can damn well wait until I’ve finished my tea._

Beelzebub took a defiant gulp, scalded their tongue, and cursed. They expected Dr. Ark to ring the doorbell again, knock, or call their phone. Doctors were always impatient. Eyeing the clock, squeezing in one more appointment. But there was only silence. 

Shit, what if he left? What if he thought it was the wrong house? In a sudden panic, Beelzebub slammed down their mug and rushed to the door, jerking it open. 

Dr. Ark was admiring the stained-glass suncatcher in the shape of a bluebottle fly that hung on their porch. He carried a small black bag and wore no coat. His slacks and long-sleeved button-down were spotless, but rumpled. Beelzebub wondered if it had been a long week for him. It had been fucking intermidable for them.

“Going to stand there all night?” they growled, as if they hadn’t just made him wait five minutes for no reason.

“Hmm,” he said, stepping inside. Confident and at ease, like he did this all the time.

“Make house calls for all your patients?” they sneered.

He raised an eyebrow. "I make exceptions for those in exceptional circumstances."

"What's so exceptional about my circumstances?" snapped Beelzebub, waiting for a comment on the rashes exploding over their face.

His answer was quick and cool. "You have an abrasive personality, and I don't want to inflict that on my staff."

They barked with incredulous laughter. "Abrasive? Most people call me an asshole and have done with it."

"I'm not here to treat you like most people do." He walked calmly through the living room like he hadn’t just eviscerated them, and ran his finger along the top of the TV. “You’re doing a good job with the dust.”

“Fuck you very much, I don’t need your approval.”

“No, you don’t,” he agreed. Then he glanced at them with a hint of amusement around his eyes. “But do you like it?”

Blood rushed to their face. It was anger, of course it was. “What the fuck kind of question is that?”

Dr. Ark didn’t answer, already moving into the kitchen.

“Why are you prowling around?” demanded Beelzebub as they stalked after him.

“Checking for allergens,” he replied.

That asshole. Why did he have to be so _reasonable_.

He opened the refrigerator, like their food was any of his goddamn business. “Fresh out of snake livers, I see.”

“What.”

“Your diet. You told me you eat ‘frog tongues, snake livers, pigeon dicks’.”

They stared at him. That did sound like the kind of thing they’d dish out to a self-important know-it-all, but the thing was, they didn’t even remember saying it. Dr. Ark did. Had recalled their exact words.

“Scented hand soap,” he commented, examining the bottle next to the sink.

“Do you have any idea how hard it is to find unscented hand soap? Not like it makes one bit of fucking difference.” Beelzebub threw out their arms, pushing up the sleeves of their robe so he could see the spreading, weeping crusts.

His face softened visibly. “Of course, I’m sorry. We can talk about allergens later. Let’s get you taken care of.”

They tried to suppress a full-body reaction to the concept of Dr. Ark _taking care_ of them. They should go somewhere other than the damn kitchen. Shit, why hadn’t they thought about this? They couldn’t bring him into their _bedroom_ , for fuck’s sake. Maybe--

“Do you have a bathtub?” he asked, in complete ignorance of Beelzebub’s inner turmoil. Or perhaps, in perfect awareness of it.

“Uh. Yeah. In the bathroom,” they said, like an idiot, as if bathtubs regularly fucked around in dining rooms and patios. 

He only followed their pointing finger with his eyes and nodded. “I’ll start the water running. Why don’t you sit down and finish your tea?”

Right. He’d seen the half-empty mug on the table. Beelzebub dropped back in their chair and watched him disappear down the hall. They listened to the rumble of their old heater, the gush of water. Their fist clenched on the mug handle.

How dare he invade their house and boss them around? _Drink your tea, take a bath_. They swallowed a mouthful. It was barely warm, all his fault for interrupting them right after they’d poured. What a jerk. They chugged the rest, threw the mug in the sink not quite hard enough to break it (they’d perfected the art) and stomped into the bathroom.

Dr. Ark knelt beside the tub with his sleeves rolled up. Right up to the elbow, so they could clearly see the defined muscle of his forearm, the sketching of dark hair on his light skin. He swirled one large hand in the water, then lifted it out and shook off a few droplets.

The last time Beelzebub had seen those fingers wet, it had been the slick of their own sex. Their legs trembled.

“Just in time,” said Dr. Ark cheerfully. “It’s ready for you.”

They took a deep breath and stepped forward. He didn’t shift position, so they nearly brushed his chest when they leaned down to test the water. They frowned. “It’s cold.”

“It’s warm,” he corrected. “As warm as a bath should be. If you run the water too hot, it’s just another irritant.”

“ _You’re_ just another fucking irritant,” they snapped, reaching for the tap.

The doctor’s hand closed around their wrist, stopping them less with force than with the sudden shock of his touch. His tone was still mild, but there was steel underneath. “If you want to cook yourself in the bath, you will kindly do it when I’m not present.”

Beelzebub stared at their hand, suspended in the air an inch from the faucet, Gabriel’s thick fingers circling their wrist. Shit, shit, shit. Why did their stomach feel like dropping to their feet and climbing up their throat all at once? Why didn’t they wrench free, claw his eyes out?

He moved their hand back to their side and released it there with a little pat. Like dealing with a recalcitrant child. _There, I’ve stopped you hurting yourself, we’ll say no more about it_. “Now get in, or it _will_ get cold.”

“If I get hypothermia, I’m suing for malpractice,” they threatened, glaring at the bath. They fiddled with the tie of their robe, knotted low on their belly, suddenly reluctant to give up the black silk armor.

“Beelzebub.” Dr. Ark’s hand appeared in their peripheral vision. His voice was impossibly gentle. “I can do it for you. Is that what you need?”

They bit their lip and nodded, still without looking at him. They dropped their own hand and watched his fingers work the knot loose. So close to their skin, so close to their _cunt_. They closed both fists, nails pressing into their palms.

Still on his knees, Gabriel reached for their shoulders, slipping the robe off so it could pool on the floor.

Then he sat back and waited. Well, had Beelzebub expected him to pick them up and drop them in the tub? Fucking ridiculous. They stepped in all by themselves, sinking right up to their neck, and, okay, it _was_ a novelty not to ease their way into scalding water.

“At the end of our last appointment, I started to explain why touch is important to health,” said Dr. Ark, for all the world like he was beginning a class.

Beelzebub rolled their eyes. “If you’re going to lecture, I might drown myself.”

“I do know CPR.” He smiled. “But I’ll keep it short. Touch improves the regulation of your nervous system. It reduces cortisol, and mitigates stress-exacerbated conditions. Like eczema."

"So what am I supposed to do?” they scoffed. “Pay for a house call every day?"

"Well, you can start by touching yourself."

The breath caught in Beelzebub’s throat. He couldn’t possibly mean that the way it sounded.

Before they could answer, or maybe because they couldn’t answer, Gabriel spoke again. “Just rub your arms a bit. You’ll be surprised how good it feels.”

“Jesus. You think I don’t wash myself?” They skimmed their hands perfunctorily over their arms, one and then the other, to show him how stupid it was. “I know what my own damn body feels like.”

“Do you?” He tilted his head. “Slow down, Beelzebub. There’s a difference between washing and _touching_. Feel your skin. Savor it.”

“Nothing to savor here,” they bit back, lifting one arm and running their fingers over the huge spread of blisters underneath.

“I disagree. Skin is your largest, most sensitive organ. It’s a treasure.” He leaned closer, one arm on the edge of the tub, as he repeated firmly, “Your skin is a treasure.”

“Dermatologist party line.” Beelzebub slid all the way under to wet their hair. This at least was a small familiar satisfaction, feeling the bubbles escape as their fingers moved over their scalp. Their eyes drifted shut.

When they surfaced again, Dr. Ark wore a broad smile. “What?” they snapped.

“You _do_ know how to pleasure yourself. Try touching the rest of your body like that. Your face and neck,” he added, as if he knew they needed a prompt, and fuck, they _did_.

Beelzebub lifted their hands to their face. Instantly they remembered applying cream to their lips, the uncontrollable reaction it had elicited, the breaking point in their determination not to call Dr. Ark. A sob rose in their throat and they tried to press it back down with their hands. Could he tell? If their face was red, they could blame it on the warm water.

“It’s okay, you’re doing fine,” he soothed. Shit, he could tell. “Why don’t you touch your legs? Give yourself a foot rub. Most people don’t realize they can do that for themselves.”

“Now I know why you’re not charging for this,” muttered Beelzebub, even as they kneaded their calves and dug knuckles into the soles of their feet. Which did feel pretty good. “Because you’re not fucking doing anything.”

“Hmm. You do like to beg in a roundabout way, don’t you? Here, lean back.” He placed his hand behind Beelzebub’s head, on the edge of the tub. They let him cradle their skull as the water buoyed up the rest of their body.

“Now relax,” he said. “Touch the rest of your body. Appreciate everything it does for you. You can close your eyes if you want. Yes. Just like that. You’re doing so well.”

“Don’t fucking patronize me.” Beelzebub dug their nails into that furious rash on their thigh.

“Beelzebub." His voice dropped in their ears like a weight. Not angry, but serious. “I told you how to handle an itch. Didn’t I?”

They pushed their head back into his hand, sullen and silent, eyes shut tight.

“Didn’t I?”

“Yes,” they admitted.

“What did I say?”

“Pressure,” they whispered, overwhelmed with the memory of his fingers on their clit as he’d delivered that advice.

“You can touch your vulva, too. It’s all right.”

 _I don’t need your fucking permission_ , they thought, but their body was liquid with need, and at Dr. Ark’s suggestion their hand flowed into place, rubbing desperately at their cunt. They had no finesse, no grace, no ability to hold back the moan that escaped.

“Doesn’t that feel good,” the doctor murmured, holding their head steady. The heat of his hand chased the chill from their wet hair. Their back arched, fingers speeding up.

“How do you feel about penetration?”

“Uhh?” Sweet Satan, was he going to fuck them in their own house? In their own bath? They bucked their hips, the thought alone nearly finishing them off.

“Vaginal penetration,” he clarified, as if that was what needed clarification. “This is a good time to try it, when you’re warm and relaxed. If it’s something that interests you.”

Beelzebub wasn’t completely without interest, or experience. But it had been a long fucking time, or rather, a long not-fucking time, since anyone had seemed worth the trouble. And they didn’t usually play with themselves that way. Half the time they were too sore, the other half they were too tired. But right now . . . 

“Yes,” they gasped. “Fuck, yes.”

“Go ahead, you can,” said Dr. Ark, and they realized he was encouraging them to finger themselves. They couldn’t bear it, dignity be damned.

“No, _you_ ,” they sobbed. “ _Please_.”

“Ah. If that’s what you need.”

Beelzebub’s legs were already spread as wide as the tub would allow, knees braced against the walls, fingers rubbing quick circles over their clit. They opened their eyes to watch Dr. Ark’s hand slip under the water, lower and lower until his fingertip touched the soft folds around their opening. Just touching, almost petting. They rocked their hips, trying to get him inside. He took pity on them with a slow push to the first knuckle, a gentle stretch.

Some wild broken sound fell from their mouth. His finger slid deeper, deeper, finally sheathing itself completely, and that was all it took. Beelzebub let out a ragged cry. Their cunt clenched and pulsed, their free hand scrabbling at the wall as climax rocked their body. Water sloshed back and forth.

Beelzebub wasn’t exactly sure how they got out of the tub. Did they climb out or did Dr. Ark lift them? Somehow they wound up in his lap, in his arms, wrapped in a towel much fluffier than any of their own.

It felt good. The softness of the towel, the pressure of his arms on top of that. Their forehead rested on his shoulder, and they could smell his sweat. No cologne, no aftershave. Did he usually avoid those things? Or only today, because he was coming to their house?

It was absurd to imagine that this appointment had loomed as large in his mind as it had in theirs. Beelzebub had thought about it all week, couldn’t think about anything else. Dr. Ark probably hadn’t given it any more consideration than his dozens of other appointments. Hundreds? How many patients did he have?

They were about to blurt out that question, or perhaps an even stupider one, when he said quietly, “You’re tensing up. Is this too much? Do you want to move on?”

 _I want to stay like this until the end of the world._ “Yeah, sure. Let’s get on with it.”

Beelzebub staggered to their feet, clutching the towel around them, and everything was fine until Dr. Ark stood up, too. Suddenly the bathroom was much too small. Beelzebub retreated into the hall and he followed, carrying their robe.

“I’d like to try wet wrap therapy after applying the cream,” he was saying. “Do you have cotton pajamas or a sweatsuit to wear over the wraps?”

“Uh. Sure. I’ve got sweats.” Beelzebub started toward their bedroom. He started after them. _No. Absolutely not_. They needed one sanctum, one room untainted by his presence. 

They turned on him, teeth bared. “Back off, Doctor Fucking Ark. I didn’t invite you.”

His lips pressed together, though they couldn’t tell whether he was annoyed or amused. “Where do you want me, then? And I did say you could call me Gabriel.”

They weren’t about to feel guilty for snapping his head off. He was the one intruding on their space. “Living room’s fine.”

Beelzebub didn’t bother with the bedroom light, just rummaged by feel for the tracksuit they’d brought home from a shitty office gift exchange. Then they grabbed a pair of socks and went out to find that Dr. Ark-- _Gabriel_ \--had shifted the coffee table to spread a fresh towel on the rug.

“I’ll have better access here, compared to the couch,” he explained when he saw them.

 _Access_. Right. Their cunt felt raw and ready, still tingling with heat from the bath. Would he try to fit a second finger, lubed up with moisturizing cream? They lay face down to hide their burning cheeks, his cloud-soft towel still wrapped around them.

“Do you need help with this, too?” Definitely amused now. They felt him undo the knot and peel it back. “Hard to believe this is the same patient who literally ripped their gown off in my office.”

“Fuck you,” mumbled Beelzebub, then added, trying it out in their mouth, “Gabriel.”

“Oh, I like that,” he said, so quickly that Beelzebub thought maybe he hadn’t meant to say it aloud. He cleared his throat. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but your back is less affected now than your legs and face. I’ll still treat everything, of course.”

And he did. He’d rescued the cream from the bathroom, and now his thick fingers and wide palms applied it smoothly from their shoulders to their bottom, down the backs of their legs, over each foot. When he spread their toes to work the cream between them, it was all Beelzebub could do not to moan and spread their legs as well.

 _He’ll get to my cunt_ , they thought. _He will_.

“Turn over for me,” Gabriel said softly. Those last two words were unnecessary and unfair. Beelzebub kept their eyes stubbornly closed as they rolled onto their back.

They heard him squeeze out more cream, rub it in his hands to warm it. He worked up their shins, their knees, dealt with those awful patches on their thighs. Beelzebub melted into his touch. It was soothing. It was. And he would get them off again. He would.

He treated their belly and breasts diligently, but there was none of the teasing of last time, no extra attention to their nipples. A whimper formed in their mouth but he’d moved on before it could escape. He covered their arms and hands, their neck and face.

The only place he lingered was their mouth. When the pad of his forefinger stroked back and forth across their lips, Beelzebub almost tried to suck on it. They might have, if he hadn’t startled them by saying briskly, “Let’s get you wrapped up now, to seal in the moisture.”

Beelzebub’s eyes flew open. They watched with a potent mixture of embarrassment and furious disappointment as Gabriel rummaged in the bag that he’d pulled onto his lap. He drew out several rolls of gauze, surgical netting, scissors and tape.

“I’ll just wet the wraps in the sink,” he told them, his tone still clipped, and took the gauze into the kitchen. 

He was gone longer than they expected, but when he returned, he was all kindness and care again. Tenderly he began to apply warm, damp dressings to each patch of eczema. It felt so much like being dressed that Beelzebub instinctively wanted to do it for themselves. At one point they even reached for the roll of gauze. “I can do it.”

He glanced up. “But you’ll allow me.”

It was spoken so softly they weren’t sure if it was a command, a plea, or a simple description. His eyes returned to his work, but for that moment they’d flashed with an intensity that left Beelzebub’s mouth dry. They said nothing more, looking away when he cut dressings for their face and drew netting over the gauze so carefully they hardly felt it.

They let him slip the sweatshirt over their head and guide their arms through it. He cracked a smile at the printing on the front. “ _Inferno, 1320_?”

“My co-workers think they’re very funny,” sighed Beelzebub, who had only just remembered what was printed on the ass of the sweatpants. They pulled those on by themselves, then sat down quickly to put on their socks. They could _not_ let Gabriel read that.

Fortunately, he was already packing up. “Leave everything on overnight, okay? And when you take the dressings off in the morning, send me some pictures. I’ll be able to see how the treatment worked, and modify it if necessary.”

Beelzebub nodded as they got to their feet, making sure to face toward him.

“You can keep the towels. They’re hypoallergenic. I laundered them myself.”

They bristled. “Don’t need your fucking towels.”

“I know. If you also don’t _want_ them, then you can throw them away.” He actually sounded annoyed, which surprised Beelzebub. His patience had seemed endless. But now he was striding across the room, reaching for the door handle like an utter _asshole_ \--

“Gabriel,” they said, following him before they knew they were going to.

He turned. “Yes?”

Nonsense thoughts buzzed in their brain. _Stay. Hold me again. Touch me all night._

They opened their mouth. “Bye.”

“Oh, Beelzebub,” he answered, as if they’d said something completely different. He leaned down and brushed his lips against theirs, a touch so light they barely felt it, like the kiss of a butterfly’s brief landing. Warmth bloomed all over their body, tingling under the bandages, and their heart throbbed like a wound.

Gabriel walked out the door.

**Author's Note:**

> Dante finished writing _Inferno_ , a poetic description of Hell, in 1320 (along with the rest of his epic _Divine Comedy_ ).
> 
> Do No Harm was going to be a one-off, but thanks to the encouraging enthusiasm of readers and friends, is becoming a three-part series. You're all amazing, and I'm so grateful for the feedback! The final installment will show us the butt of the sweatpants, because I'm sure _that's_ what we're all waiting for.


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